


State of Dreaming

by GizmoTrinket



Series: Stray Thoughts on BBC Sherlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Episode: The Abominable Bride, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Repetition, Sherlock blames himself for everything, Unrequited Love, i need another outlet for my depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another one of those little ficlits I write when I'm depressed. I'm depressed far too often, it would seem.</p>
<p>Sherlock tried to commit suicide on the plane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> _If only you knew my dear_  
>  How I live my life in fear  
> If only you knew my dear  
> How I know my time is near  
> Yeah, I've been living in a state of dreaming  
> Living in a make-believe land  
> -Living in a State of Dreaming, Marina and the Diamonds 

I'm going to die.

I packed each syringe and packet with care. Saying goodbye... I sighed and took those that would take longest to kick in. Mycroft said six months. Last time it was two years. This time he'll be overestimating.

It's a little odd. I always knew I would die early; it's one of those little things that are impossible to know yet you do anyway. Balance of probability indicated I wouldn't make it to my thirties. I did though. Thirty-three or thirty-five, depending on which file Mycroft gave you. I shouldn't have. It wasn't worth it and honestly, I'm glad it's all over.

Time for another.

I thought I knew pain at the hands and words of the other children.

I thought I knew pain at the realization that I liked men and was even more of a freak than I thought.

I thought I knew pain the first time the depression hit.

I thought I knew pain the first time I overdosed.

I thought I knew pain every time I failed and someone died.

No.

Pain was thinking your new flatmate was hitting on you and being wrong. (There's always something.)

Pain was asking your new flatmate on a date and being told that you weren't - at least he hoped you weren't. (Shouldn't have tried.)

Pain was hiding your sexuality from your flatmate; just like you were hiding it from the rest of the world because you knew there was nothing wrong with it but everyone else disagreed. (You know sex leads to sentiment.)

Pain was being told you weren't someone's friend in front of a person that made your life hell. (Always something.)

Pain was being told that your talent was amazing or fantastic at first but it eventually became showing off. (Too much.)

Pain was watching the person you were in love with go on dates; knowing when they'd had sex and with whom; pain was watching them pining over lost relationships. (Can't help.)

Pain was trying to change every part of yourself but it never being enough. (Never smart enough, never strong enough, never good enough.)

Pain was being unable to communicate properly; to understand when you'd made a mistake and how to fix it; to be able to say the words in a way everyone else would understand. (If I'm the smart one why can't they understand me?)

Pain was realizing the person you were in love with was in danger as long as you were near them. (Collateral damage.)

Pain was realizing the person you were in love with honestly thought you weren't capable of emotions like love; that you were unable to care about anyone but yourself. (Machine, what I wanted them to see.)

Pain was reinforcing the sentiment to protect them. (Not enough trust.)

Pain was listing to a conversation between two people who were in love with you but neither wanted a relationship with your gender. (Always me.)

Pain was saying goodbye to the love of your life not knowing if you would ever see them again; knowing he'd be fine without you and that it was better they thought you dead. (Not needed.)

Pain was listening to them talk to your grave and praying you would be good enough to fulfil their wish; pain was enduring two years of pain and literal torture to do so. (Too late, too slow.)

That's where I should have given up. It took too long. I wasn't good enough to do everything the way I was supposed to. I wasn't smart enough to find my targets fast enough. I was supposed to be gone months. I was gone years. I should have killed myself in that forest. I made a mistake and I should have understood that it was my time. The little part of my brain that knew these things told me it was time. Mycroft would figure it out and finish what I started. That was the last of them, outside the country anyway. But, I ignored the little part of my brain that told me to end it. I had hope. I had a reason to live. I had John.

Stupid. So stupid.

Time has little meaning to me. One day it will be March and I'll wake up and it will be May. But it meant something to John. I was so excited at the prospect of seeing him again I didn't think. I acted impulsively.

I could have saved so much pain for both of us if I'd stayed dead. Without the target on my back he wasn't in danger. He'd found someone else. He moved on.

Pain was being attacked by the person you loved. Being punched, head butted, tacked to the ground, ripping out your stitches. (Wrong approach.)

Pain was watching all hope vanish because you couldn't explain properly, you didn't have the words. (Saying sorry not enough. I should know what is.)

Pain was enduring because it wasn't official yet; there was a chance that he could still pick you. (Just listen for once.)

Pain was pulling the person you loved out of a bonfire because someone was after you again; and reading later that they thought you put them there in the first place. (You caused this, Sherlock.)

Pain was fearing you just killed the love of your life because you wanted another adventure. Pain was praying the off switch was an actual off switch. Pain was making the situation worse. (What did you expect? That's what you do.)

Pain was being called a psychopath by the only person you thought understood you. (Why would he believe otherwise? That's what you showed him.)

Pain was told you'd never be forgiven for something you did to protect everyone you cared about. (You know trust.)

But none of those held a candle to the pain of planning the wedding of the love of your life to another person. Having to sit through their wedding and hand the man you love the rings to put on someone else's finger. Having to make a speech in celebration of their love and union. Watching the happy couple waltz to the song you both danced to; even if it was just pretend. Realizing the man you love was fathering a child with his new wife and your part in his life was over. Pain was going home to your empty flat and knowing that you can't do anything but take a small amount of drugs to numb the pain. Pain was knowing you had to wait until he stopped calling so he never blamed himself when you finally die. Pain was trying to save his family and being shot by his wife. Pain was watching him suffer over her. Pain was realizing he loved her more than he ever loved you. Pain was planning a homicide to protect them in the hopes that you'll be gunned down on the spot because you can't endure anymore. Pain was being locked in solitary and your brain slowly eating itself with no sign of relief.

Pain was realizing your freedom is a suicide mission that likely involved more torture. (It's what you wanted.)

Pain was telling the love of your life that you'd likely never see him again and watching as he doesn't even flinch. (Why would he? You put him and his family in danger.)

Pain was aborting your love confession because you don't want him to suffer with the knowledge when he's happy with his wife. (Couldn't quite do that properly though.) Doesn't matter, he won't understand.

Pain is knowing he never will. (Should have said it sooner.)

I looked out the window wishing the drugs I'd already taken had included an upper, purposefully sitting so I couldn't see John standing next to his wife. The plane turned and I saw them anyway. Should have known that would happen. The drugs, already addled. No matter. I saw John smile, like that first day, against the wall. The best of times.

Time for another.

Pain is realizing you have to come back.

Pain is knowing there's no point. There will always be someone to fight. There will always be evil. And because of this there will always be people who fight it. Can't it be someone else's turn? Is that so selfish? To not want to see marital bliss? To not want to see the baby? Can't I have this one thing?

No. I deserve this. I wronged so many people... Always just doing what I wanted and disregarding their feelings. Molly, Jenine... America... I O U. East wind. Unworthy. Hurt. John.

Addled again, time for the others.

Pain is the relief found in reading about the beginning as it all ends. Because there were good times. Too many to count although I tried. The good just made the bad that much worse. I could pretend though. I could write a story, one last case. Be in the very best of times at the end.

Dose after dose. Not enough time, three at once. Too deep. Another dose. Physical pain. Fear. Distract, the case. The will to survive. John. John. Always John.

He's so very good at saving my life.

I wish he'd stop.

\----

Back in Baker Street I relaxed into my chair and waited until John materialized in his. When he did I smiled.

"Are you sure it's still just a 7% solution you're taking? I rather think you've increased the dose a bit." John, ever the worrier.

"Perhaps that was being a little bit fanciful. But, perhaps such things could come to pass." I looked away and changed the subject.

Pain is futile hope.

Time with John was fiction anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Do I even need to add disclaimer stuff? No one would pay me to write this. Ever.


End file.
